That’s my mama, I say. My mama.

—Champ

This youngster that’s out front don’t know me and looks spooked when I ask for dude. He tells me to go around back, where a dude with a blue fitted cap dipped low points me past a group of young Crips camped by a TV. I got my pistol tucked (trust who?) in my waist and the sack of oz’s stuffed in my drawls: reasons A and B, respective, of me stepping hesitant as shit down the hall towards a room at the end of the hall with a TV blasting inside.

When I get in the room, this sasquatch nigger is on the floor, pants dropped, his nasty hairy ass pounding a female body. It’s one of those times I want to look away but can’t. The female’s got her head thrown to the side and is a corpse but for a twitch in her feet. And it’s the feet that give her away. It’s seeing those feet that cracks a fault line in me. He stabs her again with a deep grunt, and growls what I can’t hear over the noise: over the TV, over the chatter inside my skull. I take out my pistol, trip the safety, and materialize at his side. I drop to my knees and jab the pistol with all my might into the meat that covers his ribs.

Get off of her, I say. Get off of her now.

Bear freezes, holds himself prone, keeps his eyes low.

My mother’s eyes snap open and plead me in the face with a face that’s three-fifths of a suicide.

Bear hefts to his feet, yanks at his pants, fumbles with his belt buckle. His white T-shirt’s soaked with yellow sweat. I keep my pistol (I can feel it shaking, and hope he can’t see) aimed where his heart should be.

That’s my mama, I say. My mama, I say. Say it as a man, a boy, a child.

The woman who gave me life stands butt-naked, all bones, her pubic bush glistening wet. Well, here it is, no more secrets, she says. The truth, all truth. Now are you satisfied? She martyrs her arms out. Her eyes are wrung dark. One of her penciled eyebrows is swiped clean. Her hair’s a spiked swarm.

The room reeks of blunts and sweat and raw sex—a kick in the soul.

Get dressed, I say. Put your fucking clothes on, now.

Bear don’t speak nor move. You’ve never seen a nigger this size be this still. He and I looking into each other, judging worth. It’s tough to keep strength on the trigger. My mother dresses too slow, takes too long to slip on her panties and pants, her bra and shirt, her shoes. I snatch her by the shirt and it tears at the neck. I grab her by the arm and, with my back to Bear, jerk this wispish woman into the hall and down the hall and past the young Crips (none who rouse for a nigger dragging a basehead to destination unknown) and outside, drag her to the car, where I shove her in it less all of my might. I safety the pistol and stash it under my seat. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to be alive. We ease off.

Where are you taking me? she says.

Shut. The fuck. UP, I say.

It’s Sunday and the world sounds like Sunday. Mom rocks in her seat, turned from me, praying hands pushed between her legs, a tear lolling on her sharp cheek. Whatever she is, I am far less than I was when I needed her more. What now can we do for each other? I drive all backstreets, Rodney, Roselawn, Holman, Failing. The city steady turning its back on us.

We stop at a four-way stop and Portland’s finest idle across from us. You can see them spy into our car and look down at something out of sight. We pull off and they pull off and I see them see me in the eye. They crawl past and bust a U and you don’t know a nigger, never seen a nigger, it couldn’t be a nigger with this much base panic. They follow a pulse and hit us with flashers, trouble that should spark a high-speed, but I pull to the curb.

We’re straight, we’re straight, I say to myself. Be cool and we’ll be on our way.

It’s a duo and they strut up on both sides. I let the window down, say hello (with honor), and ask if he could please tell me why I was stopped.

For starters, a seat belt, he says. He’s got a weak chin of salt-and-pepper stubble and a nexus of paunch.

Oh, I say, glance at my unstrapped chest and touch where the strap should be.

He asks for my license and stomps back to his motoring cruiser. Its lights flash red and blue in my mirror. This is my life. These are my options. Choices flushed to two: Run or stay. Run or stay put. Run or stay the fuck put. Take the risk or risk what’s stuffed in my boxer briefs paroling me into my afterlife. I whisper to my mother for her to, no matter, keep her mouth shut. Be cool, be cool, I say again to myself. The partner plods back to the car and hands me my license. Clean, he says, and just that fast I feel my heart slow to the speed of a human being. This time we’ll let you slide, but next time it’s a ticket, so buckle up, he says. Never know when it will save your life. He pats the hood and asks his partner if he’s ready to roll, but his partner (you know him: he’d misstep on a beating heart and wouldn’t think twice to check his boot) is rapt by Mom. He knocks on her window for me to let it down and I do. You don’t look so hot, he says. You look not-so-hot hot and nervous. Now, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been doing drugs. Illegal drugs.

Mom sits mute, and I pray to God, Jesus, and all the saints she stays just so.

Yep, he says. I’d say you’re showing telltale signs of illicit drug use. That or a rough night turning tricks.

I reach over and touch Mom’s thigh and there’s no greater wish for my life than for her to feel its warning.

Mom shuts her eyes tight, opens them slowest. She turns to the cop, her neck first, then those stormy browns. Turning tricks! she says. Who the hell you calling a prostitute!

Well, now that you ask, that’s a good question, he says. How about we find out who? He reaches through the window and asks for her ID.

Mom gropes around. She slams her back against the seat and pats her pockets. She dips her hand through the throat of her torn shirt into her bra. I left it, she says. I don’t have it.

Then I’m afraid you and I have a problem, he says. He orders her to step out of the car, says it almost as if it’s a choice. He posts her for search, asks if she’s carrying any drugs or paraphernalia, if he should worry over needles or glass. Mom releases a deep breath and looks to the sky. He frisks her from her feet up. He digs his hand in a pocket and pulls out a matchbook and scraps. He leaves the pocket inside out and lays his finds on the hood. He fishes another pocket and sifts small trash.

BINGO! he says, and cups a puny find.

I don’t have to see it to know what it is.

The cop at my window frowns and tells me to step out of the car. My options now an option: RUN!

But run and leave who?

My legs are all flesh, no bones, as I fall out, wouldn’t carry me a foot. The cop jerks my arms behind my head and kicks my legs apart.

My option: no option.

Are you clean? he says. Tell me now if you’re dirty and we can save ourselves trouble. He frisks me from the top down, tapping my arms, chest, gut. He gets down to my crotch and pats the sack—once, pats the sack—twice. He tilts his head and grins, a big, wide, grin. Uh-oh, what’s that? he says. What do we have here?

No lie, about now, a bullet would be mercy.

He digs into my jeans and lifts the sack (my work rocked up and packaged in plastic) to the sky.

Partner, he says. Will you take a look at this.

They toss us cuffed into their hard backseat and boom the doors shut. Leave me and Mom, mother and son—always.